


Such monstrous games we play

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Dark Harry Potter, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Sort Of, Unhealthy Relationships, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 09:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20927930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: It was a game now.And they both wanted to win.





	Such monstrous games we play

**Author's Note:**

> I am tired, and medicated, and I decided to write, so sorry for whatever this turned out to be and for any mistakes.

It was a game now.

Maybe it always had been.

The two of them, so similar outwardly, almost as though their stories were simply mirrors of one another. The deep pools of the inexplicable that most humans would rather overlook than try to understand. But what similarity they had on the outside was not translated within.

Inside themselves, Tom and Harry could not have been more different. The swirling, twirling, bloody things that made up their insides could not be flowers of the same tree.

And that was why this was a fun game.

Because Tom wanted things, he _wanted_ them ever so badly.

And Harry refused, he _refused_ them profusely.

Tom wanted acquiescence; to have approval of the things he did, however monstrous they became, because deep down his throat, he needed to be loved.

No matter how much he hated.

Harry though, Harry wanted control; to be in charge of his own destiny for once in his life, however horrific it was to get it, because deep in the bowels of his body, he needed to be hated.

Now matter how much he loved.

That was how this...

This...

Thing, was born. Brought into the world with love and hate as its parents. But mutated, sickened with the monsters that curled themselves beneath their skin.

It started simple.

Tom's hand on Harry's back. Not hard, not cruel, merely a presence that could not be denied. Merely fingers that moved, that slid and glided over his spine as though it were the bark lines on a silver birch.

It was beautiful.

But Harry had still pushed him off, stepped away from Tom's hand and left them both floundering in deep space, unsure on how to connect with the earth that everyone else understood intrinsically.

That was back when Harry craved normalcy like an addict; back when it wound itself around his bones and seeped right into his brain.

Normal was good.

But he learnt very quickly that he wasn't normal.

Neither was Tom.

And abnormal things should stick together.

He let Tom's hand stay after that. Let it stay on the small of his back until it got bored and began to move. Tom's hand liked his neck, it liked to circle the base, spin around the ligaments like a spider making its web.

Tom liked to be close, to drape himself as though he were a void, a dark, black, emptiness that sucked everything into it, crushing it so painfully intimately that Harry's breath got stuck in his throat. 

"Love me," that's what Tom would breathe into his ear, all soft and sweet and sultry, like a peach just past its best, all while his hand crawled tighter around Harry's neck.

He said it like love could be demanded.

It could not. 

And Harry did not love him then, and even now, he would deny that he loved what Tom was, because monsters are hard to love.

That's why Tom does not love him either.

But it doesn't really matter if they are repulsive to all look because the only gaze that matters us each others. 

Their game became far more interesting when Harry took it upon himself to make the rules. To set them out before Tom's eyes. It was simple really.

"Submit to me, and I will love you."

He'd said it so gentle, but it had still burned his tongue. The words like molten gold spreading their way through his mouth until they dripped from his lips and down his chin.

Tom did not like those words.

But he still tried his game.

Tom's hands were always too cold like there was something cold under his skin, eating his heart. Though they still felt nice under Harry's shirt, in the dark where no one could see. 

Tom's mouth was nice too and his tongue was never cold.

It always made Harry's thoughts sag, wobble and feel weak, the very weight dragging him physically down until the world was folding in on itself, in and in and in.

Harry did not crack.

He did not even bend.

Not even when Tom buried his fingers between his thighs and rolled himself out like the sea against the sand. 

Because no matter what Tom said, what little words left his mouth, and what fragile kisses he planted there like cornflowers, he did not mean what he said.

Tom was a liar.

And Harry would deny him what he wanted for as long as he wanted it, if he did not learn to unravel his pride.

That was not to say Harry never initiated a round. That he never got Tom on his back or his knees and used the sweetest words and his sharpest nails to get the words he wanted from Tom's mouth.

Those words never came.

For Tom would deny him what he wanted for as long as he wanted it, if he did not learn to love the things he wanted to own.

So it was a game now.

A hundred games played every day in every way imaginable.

And they both wanted to win.


End file.
